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The door opened with a creak, admitting a draft that stirred the air without refreshing it. The woman who entered was tall, commanding the space without effort, her presence a disruption in the grey uniformity. Long, coppery hair fell in rich, wavy cascades, textured as if tended with care from a bygone era; drowned in treatments and rich oils, evoking old TikTok reels of effortless glamour, a relic of abundance. Her lips were a vivid red, bold against the pallor of the day, and her eyes gleamed green, sharp with intent. She scanned the room once, then approached Nia's table, her movements fluid, accented by the subtle click of boots on worn tile and hugged her...
... Colonel Yelena Kuznetsova smelled nice, a fragrance of jasmine and sandalwood that evoked women before the war, polished and unscarred. Like a glitch in the matrix, a type of person that didn't exist anymore: curated, soft, vibrant, untarnished by the grind. And there Nia was, dark brown hair hanging lifelessly over her shoulders in messy cascades, grown out without trimming from a close shave that spoke of practicality over vanity; dressed in the same orange hoodie and leather jacket worn most of the time, smelling of coffee, rust, and ink. Her eyes were pale blue and tired, undereye bags taking more space than brows and eyes together, and her lips had not seen a Chapstick in a while, cracked from the persistent chill and humidity.
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